


After School Activities

by lemonfish



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, But today is not that day, M/M, One day I will write fic about these two that doesn't involve them in an office or classroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonfish/pseuds/lemonfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armand Richelieu, new religious studies teacher at the school, <em>hates</em> parent-teacher conferences. That is, until Jean Treville shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the Parent-Teacher Conference

Armand Richelieu, new religious studies teacher at the high school, _hates_ parent-teacher conferences. If it's not angry parents shouting at him for not treating their precious little babies right, it's long stretches of boredom when nothing happens. He understands parents wanting to see their children's math or biology teachers; religious studies, not so much. Colleges don't really look at that sort of thing.

So it's a real surprise for him that no less than 15 parents made appointments with him for today. It's also a surprise that so far, they all seemed to be women.

'Charles is doing great in class,' he tells the latest of the Stepford moms.

'My son's name is Louie.'

'Is it?' Armand flashes a contrite smile, trying to look apologetic. Which he is. But it has been a long day, okay, and he wasn't expecting any of these ladies to come by and ruin his perfectly planned day of grading, something he actually enjoyed doing.

His smile seems to mollify her. 'It's perfectly all right, Armand. Sorry! I meant Mr Richelieu. Can't be too informal,' she says, flipping her hair and giggling like a schoolgirl.

He doesn't know how he makes it through that, but he does. And finally, as 6:45 pm approaches and almost every other teacher has shut up shop for the night, there's only one mother left to meet with. So of course she's late.

Armand decides to grade some more papers, determined not to waste his time, until an insistent knocking on the door of his classroom startles him.

 _You're the one running late, and now you're the one battering down my door?_ he thinks angrily. The entitledness of some parents really gets to him sometimes.

'It's nice of you to finally show up,' he could say to her.

'For a second there I was wondering if you actually cared about your child's education,' he also could say (although this would probably get him in trouble).

'Uh,' is what he actually says.

In his defense, at the moment, Armand is disoriented by three things:

  1. Jean is a man, and not a woman as he'd assumed
  2. Jean is, on account of present evidence, a very good-looking man with the most striking blue eyes
  3. Jean must be an asshole, because he has the nerve to wear a tan leather jacket, along with his jeans and a blue v-neck, an ensemble that makes him look impossibly hot, to what is supposed to be a _professional_ meeting about his child's education.



'Mr Richelieu? I'm Jean Treville — Olivier's father,' Jean says, in a low, gravelly voice that does things to Armand's insides. He walks in the classroom and approaches the teacher's desk.

'Ah, yes. Please, take a seat.' They shake hands perfunctorily, and Armand tries not to think about how Jean's rough hands would feel wrapped around his cock.

_Oh, shit._

Armand pulls his hand away. Jean, mildly startled by the sudden movement but taking it in stride, takes a seat directly across the desk. Armand violently changes the route of his train of thought by redirecting it to Olivier's student progress report, which is here … somewhere. He fumbles through his stack of papers, determinedly _not_ distracted by the handsome man seated across from him.

 _Ah, there it is._ He pulls it out from the drawer, lays it down, and straightens it out to perfectly parallel the edges of the desk, actions whose only purpose is to give him time to gather himself so he doesn't sound like an blithering idiot when he finally talks to Jean.

'You'll be glad to know that your son is an exemplary student. He asks smart questions and isn't afraid to engage in some deeper thought now and again. He also helps out some of the other students in group work and such, and takes leadership when he has to. You must be very proud of him.'

Jean's expression, which had been set in a slight frown, changes. His eyes relax and corner of his mouth twitches in a smile, and Armand has to fight down pangs of arousal. 'I'm surprised, honestly. I thought you were going to tell me that he's a bad student, and I came prepared to fight you.'

'Why on earth would you think that?'

'All I ever hear from Olivier about his new religious studies teacher is how you apparently have it out for him. You keep shooting him down every time he speaks in class!'

'Only to correct his opinions about doctrine.'

'And are students not allowed to have opinions?'

'They're allowed. As long as they know their opinions are wrong.'

Jean laughs heartily at this, and it delights Armand to no end that he seems to be one of those people who laughs with his whole body. Jean's laughter is the most delightful sound he's heard all week, and he'd like to hear it some more. He laughs along, mostly at his own absurdity.

'Oh, you are a delight,' Jean says, almost fondly, looking at Armand with amusement. 'You're even better than the moms said.'

'What?'

'They were all gossiping in the cafeteria about the new silver fox in the faculty.'

'What?'

'You know,' Jean says, slowly, as he rises from his seat to walk around the desk, close to where Armand is sitting, 'you're even more good-looking than they said, too.'

'I'm, you're, wait, what?' Today has been a landmark day in eloquence for Armand. He's not quite sure how to process this information. So he decides that the best thing to do is stay seated and busy himself with cleaning up his desk. 'Oh, look at the time, I really must be going,' he says, shuffling some papers, deliberately not looking at Jean.

But not looking at him doesn't stop Armand from feeling the heat of Jean's gaze. Or stop him from being aware of such a strong, masculine body so close to him. And it doesn't stop the lust from building up inside him to the point where he needs to have Jean, right now. He closes his eyes, praying and fearing that when he opens them, Jean will be gone, like the succubus straight from hell that he is.

'Do you have to leave right now?' Jean whispers hotly in his ear, sending a frisson of lust through him.

In response, he turns his chair so that he's face to face with Jean, grabs him by the shirt, and pulls him down to kiss him hard. Oh, it's been too long since Armand's touched anyone like this. Why did he ever stop? The feel of Jean's stubble on his face, a hand tangled in his hair, pulling slightly, their tongues and teeth clashing, he can't breathe, and he can't get enough.

He _does not_ whimper with want when Jean pulls away. _Shit, I've done something wrong, he's realized he's made a huge mistake and he's going to leave — oh no wait he's on his knees, why would — oh, sweet Jesus, am I really going to get sucked off in my own classroom? Where I teach_ religious studies?

Jean's lustful gaze up at him indicates that this is very much what's about to happen. Armand takes a few seconds to imprint the image of Jean on his knees in his mind forever. A few seconds is all he gets, because the next thing he knows, Jean's pulled down his zipper with his teeth and has taken Armand's hard cock in his mouth, taking it all the way in before pulling off agonizingly slowly.

Armand puts his hands on Jean's head, not pushing, just needing to feel him. Jean speeds up, driving Armand absolutely insane with lust each time his cock hits the back of his throat. He's not going to last much longer, so he tries to push Jean off.

'Stop, I'm going to —'

But because Jean is a succubus straight from hell, he doesn't pull off. Instead, Armand feels a sinfully delicious vibration around his cock, and upon realizing it's Jean humming around him, comes harder than he has in a very long time, biting back his noises. Jean stays where he is, patiently swallowing every last drop. Once he's sure Armand has finished, he pulls off, smiling up at him. 'How was that, teach?' His tongue darts out to lick up a stray bit of come on the corner of his lip.

Armand almost gets hard again just from that. 'Full marks.'

In his post-coital haze, it takes him a while to realize that Jean hasn't come yet, and immediately decides to make up for it. 'Sit on the desk,' Armand says.

Jean scrambles to get up from his knees while undoing his flies at the same time. Then he's laid out on the desk like a feast to be savored, leaning back on his elbows, cock jutting out proudly from his jeans.

Armand slides his chair back and swallows Jean to the hilt. 'Oh, God, yes,' Jean says, wrapping his legs around Armand's back. Armand redoubles his efforts, gliding his lips and tongue all along the length, with one hand reaching up to pinch one of Jean's nipples.

'Oh f—' Whatever Jean is about to say is cut off by him coming in Armand's mouth. Just as Jean did, Armand swallows all of it before he finally pulls off. For a moment they're both slumped over; Armand in his chair, Jean on the desk, both trying to catch their breaths.

Armand's the first to recover, zipping himself back up and doing the same for Jean, offering a hand so that he can get up off the desk. 'Thank you for coming in to see me today, Mr Treville,' he says, mock-formally, straightening out Jean's shirt to make him look more presentable before he goes out.

Jean laughs. 'I'm just glad to know my son is in good hands.' He pulls Armand in for a slow kiss, without the urgency and heat of earlier, but with a tenderness that Armand could get used to if he's not careful.

They break off the kiss reluctantly when Jean's phone goes off. 'Ah, hell, I have to get back home.'

'Of course. I have to finish up here anyway.'

'See you at the next parent-teacher conference, Mr Richelieu,' Jean says. 'But hopefully, much sooner than that.' With a knowing smile, he shuts the door behind him.

Armand picks up the papers and office supplies Jean knocked over when he got on the desk. Once everything is back in its right place, he lets out a contented sigh. He _loves_ parent-teacher conferences.


	2. At the New School Policy Lecture

Jean’s not sure why he’s at this PTA-sponsored lecture about new school policies. Sure, he’s technically part of the PTA, but he hasn’t attended many of these. Work at the precinct usually gets in the way, and just getting out of the office early enough to be able to pick Olivier up from school is already difficult; how much more devoting a couple of hours every Thursday to … whatever it is PTA members talk about?

After making some small talk with the other parents, he grabs a coffee and takes a seat in the very back of the classroom, pulling out a notepad and laying it out on his desk. He doodles in the margins, waiting for the lecture to start.

He’s putting the finishing touches on an incredibly detailed eye that he’s drawn when someone takes the seat next to him and says ‘So, you come here often?’

The voice alone stills Jean’s hand, and he looks over to his new seat mate. It’s Armand, the new religious studies teacher from a few weeks ago, taking a sip from his coffee cup and looking at him from over the rim, grey eyes flashing intensely. Jean’s glad he’s already sitting. He’s been thinking about Armand ever since that parent-teacher conference night, and trying to find a way to run into him without seeming too stalkery. It’s probably 87% of the reason he even came to this lecture.

‘Not nearly often enough,’ he says. ‘But I am just absolutely fascinated by school minutiae, so I knew I couldn’t miss this one.’

‘I knew you looked like the type to pore over those insignificant things like changes to the extracurricular guidelines,’ Armand says. He’s about to follow up with something else, but the lecturer has walked in and a hush has descended over the room, so he simply turns his eyes forward. Jean already misses his intense gaze. The lights turn down and the projector comes on.

The lecture, it turns out, is incredibly boring. The lecturer is simply reading things off PowerPoint slides in a dull monotone, explaining every single detail in the new parent-student handbook. Everyone else seems to be lapping it up, though. Even Armand, who he thought would be bored by this, is paying rapt attention. Jean drinks some more coffee to try to stay awake. It barely works.

What does work is feeling a hand on his thigh. That jolts him awake right away.

He looks over at Armand. For all intents and purposes, he’s paying deep attention to the lecture, right hand busily scribbling notes, eyes either on the slides or on his notepad. But really, his left hand is sliding higher up Jean, coming to rest right on his fly, waiting for a sign that it’s OK for Armand to continue.

Jean’s blood travels to his dick so fast it makes his head spin.

He parts his thighs, silently giving consent. Armand deftly and quietly works his buckle and fly open, and pulls Jean’s cock out, growing harder with every touch. It’s taking every bit of willpower for Jean not to buck into Armand’s hand until he comes. Armand’s thumb is sliding around the head, spreading the slick fluid there around. Jean’s grip on the desk tightens.

Armand squeezes his shaft as he strokes it slowly, traveling the whole length. Jean is only human; he covers his face with his hands so he can bite down on his palm instead of moaning with pleasure. Thank God they’re in the back and the room is dark; otherwise, they might get caught. Somehow, the thought makes him harder, and Armand’s strokes speed up. Jean wants to beg, to have Armand take him over the desk with everyone watching, to let him come …

He’s just about to reach the edge when inexplicably, Armand slows down and lets up in pressure, turning his touch into featherlight strokes. Jean is going to kill him one day.

Eventually, Armand’s slowed down enough that Jean’s almost back to normal, no longer on the edge, and looking like nothing’s wrong at all, except for the telltale erection Armand’s still gently stroking in his hand.

Right before the lecture ends, Armand zips Jean back up and brings his hand back up to his desk, licking it clean in full view of Jean a few seconds before the lights come back on. The timing is so perfect that if Jean didn’t know any better he’d say Armand had planned it.

Jean can only take so much. As the rest of the lecture group exits, he turns to Armand. ‘Mr Richelieu, could I meet with you for a few moments?’

Armand’s face is a look of pure guilelessness. ‘Ah, Mr Treville. Of course you may. Whatever for?’

‘It’s about proper behavior in the classroom.’ He makes sure that everyone else has left and is no longer in the hallway before dragging Armand in the opposite direction. Once he’s found the faculty men’s room, Jean pulls him inside before locking the door behind them.

‘How dare you,’ he says, right before slamming Armand against the door and placing his mouth on his quite violently, lips catching against teeth. ‘I don’t see you for weeks —’ he breaks off, making his way down Armand’s neck — ‘and you pull this shit?’ He moves even lower.

Armand yelps when Jean licks his nipple, having pushed his shirt out of the way. ‘Couldn’t help it,’ he gasps out. ‘You looked … so bored … just wanted to help … oh God!’ Jean’s taken hold of Armand’s shaft and is stroking it, much to the latter’s delight, if the sounds he’s making are anything to go by. Armand decides to return the favor, so there they are, leaning against a bathroom door, stroking to each other to completion like a couple of horny teenagers.

Jean comes first, getting it all over the door, biting down on Armand’s shoulder to muffle his scream. Armand doesn’t take much longer; after a few strokes, he’s coming all over Jean’s hand, stifling his moans.

After the moment of urgency passes, they’re both sated, breathing hard, and leaning against each other. Jean wipes his hand on a paper towel within reach, then wonders if this is a good time to kiss Armand. The other man seems to anticipate what he’s thinking, and leans down to capture his mouth in a long, slow, gentle kiss.

‘How in the hell did you time that perfectly?’ Jean asks as they both clean themselves up.

‘Did you know that this lecture is actually the second time it’s been presented this month? I went to the first one but you weren’t there. When I noticed that this was the exact same one, well, I wanted to see what I could do with you in 45 minutes.’

‘Oh, so you were looking for me. You big softie,’ Jean teases, and leans in for another kiss.

Armand flinches. He tries to play it off and returns the kiss, but Jean noticed. Maybe Jean’s making more of this whole situation than it really is. Maybe Armand’s just using him for sex, and isn’t into endearments or making this into a whole … thing. 

But judging from this kiss, he’s not so sure.

Jean will figure it out later. Meanwhile, there’s more making out to be done.


	3. At the Catholics v Anglicans Soccer Game

_What is wrong with me?_ Armand wonders as he picks at the salad he brought for lunch.

He doesn’t know where to begin. 

That’s a lie; he knows _exactly_ where to begin. And that’s in his classroom, a few weeks ago, when Jean walked in and made his day and ruined his life all at the same time. 

Armand’s not usually the type of man who climbs another man like a tree within minutes of meeting him. He’s more distant, more reserved; needs to find out more about the other person before even considering going out on a date, much less get incredibly handsy under a desk in a school-sponsored meeting.

But you can barely blame him; Jean shouldn’t be legally allowed to walk around with that dashing face and impossibly charming smile. And due to some miracle of God which he will not question, Jean seems to be interested in Armand.

And yet, even after their encounters, he recoils from simple affection.

The crux of the matter, he realizes, is this: despite their interactions, Armand has no idea where he stands with Jean. He doesn’t know if he throws arounds endearments without a second thought, or if he reserves them for special moments. Jean seems to him like a man who’s less restrained with his affections than Armand is; when he says something that implies he likes Armand, does he mean it, or does he just say it reflexively, as part of his natural charm offensive? If Armand tries to match what he perceives as Jean’s level of feeling when returning affection, will he accidentally go too far too fast and risk pushing Jean away?

When Jean teased him about looking for him the other day, should he have responded with what he really felt instead? And what does he feel for this man anyway? And why did he put grapes in his salad today?

It’s only a few minutes before the break ends, so Armand continues to not eat his lunch.

* * *

That evening, Armand’s nursing a glass of wine at his favorite bar when he notices a woman sit next to him. He turns, and sighs with relief that it’s Milady, the grade school … something. Armand wants to say ‘coordinator’ — she always seems to be involved with everything there, but doesn’t really have an official title. Regardless, she and Armand have become friends.

‘What’s bothering you?’ she asks.

‘How do you know something’s bothering me?’

‘You’re drinking Pinot Noir out of a Chardonnay glass.’

Armand holds the glass up to the light. ‘So I am.’ He sighs, disappointed in this lapse. He drinks anyway.

‘Tell me.’

So he puts down the glass and tells her. About the handsome parent that walked into his classroom and proceeded to do indecent things with him. How he hoped to meet him again so he attended a few functions he thought the other man would be in, and when he finally ran into him, proceeded to do even more indecent things. About how he would like to keep seeing him again, but isn’t sure where he stands or how he feels.

Throughout this, Milady looks thoughtful. ‘Tell you what. Come to the grade school campus tomorrow after class. Let’s watch nine-year-olds play soccer. Our Catholics v the Anglicans! Can’t miss it.’

‘Are those actually their team names? No, wrong question. How is that supposed to help me?’

‘I’m not sure yet, but trust me.’

* * *

Armand’s not a big fan of being outside, as his pale complexion betrays. Nevertheless, he’s in the bleachers, with a hat over his head to protect from the mid-afternoon sun, sitting with Milady. The teams aren’t out yet and he’s impatiently fidgeting, worrying about the grading he still has to do.

‘Why am I here?’

‘Just wait.’

More parents and spectators fill up the seats. Finally, the teams start coming in, taking their respective benches. But it’s one of the coaches Armand can’t take his eyes off of, because clad in shorts and a shirt that shows off his excellently toned upper body is —

‘Jean!’ Armand exclaims a little too loudly. To his horror, Jean hears it and turns to find the source, but there are too many people in the bleachers now and it’s impossible to tell, so he turns back to his young charges to give them final instructions before the match starts.

Armand turns to Milady. ‘Is this why you brought me here?’

‘Your secret boyfriend sounded familiar, so I thought I’d make sure we were thinking of the same Jean.’

‘He’s not my —’

‘Yes, yes. But I thought it would be good for you to see him like this. So you can get a better idea of him without it ending up in the both of you making out in the equipment room or something.’

Armand blushes, but takes Milady’s point. In silence, he watches Jean in his element. There’s an air of militarism in the way he marshals his players, but there’s also genuine affection in the way he coaches them, as if he’s invested in them doing well and having fun. The kids seem to like him too, as they try to impress him by following directions but also letting their creativity flow when on the pitch.

Seeing Jean be so good with children strikes Armand with a very strong pang of fondness.

He hears a camera shutter sound. ‘What the hell?’

Milady is giggling as she reviews the photo she just took on her phone. ‘That face you were just making was so good, I had to save it for posterity.’ She offers the phone for him to see.

Armand is prepared to be annoyed. He looks at the photo of him. It’s a profile so he can’t see the full expression he’s making. But his crow’s feet are less prominent; his whole countenance looks less severe; his expression is full of warmth; there’s even a rare slight smile.

He stares at the photo for some time, trying to see himself as the man captured in the frame — a man free of worry and full of affection. The cognitive dissonance is hard to reconcile.

‘I didn’t realize you were in this deep,’ Milady says.

‘Me neither.’ He gives her phone back and holds his head in his hands.

‘Oh, Armand. You poor bastard.’

* * *

Jean lets out a triumphant yell when the referee blows the whistle and the game ends, 3-0 to his team. The kids swarm him in delight before they run off back to their parents, and he sets about picking up pylons and tidying up the pitch.

Almost everyone has left by the time he finishes. Fumbling for his keys, he heads to the parking lot, but is distracted by the sound of two people having what sounds like a very intense conversation.

‘What if he doesn’t —’  
‘—Trust me, he will’  
‘And I end up looking like an ass!’

‘Excuse me,’ Jean says from halfway across the lot. ‘This is a grade school. Watch your language.’

He hears the man sigh so loudly that teenagers in a mile radius spontaneously discover Joy Division. ‘It’s after hours, Mr —’

They’re both stunned into silence when they recognize each other. Jean thinks it’s mostly surprise at realizing Armand exists outside classrooms. Up to this point he’d almost convinced himself that Armand was a figment of his imagination. His fevered, horny imagination.

‘Oh. Armand. Hi. Didn’t know you were here.’

‘Jean! Hello. Sorry. I didn’t realize.’

‘Did you come to watch the game?’

‘Yes, I did. Good job showing those Anglicans what-for. I didn’t know you had time in your busy schedule to coach soccer.’

‘Well, I make time. I love the game. Used to play, but I have too many injuries now, so I just coach. You know what they say, those who can’t do …’ Jean trails off when he realizes who he’s talking to. ‘No offense.’

‘It almost feels like you meant to offend a little bit,’ Armand says without heat. He even cracks a smile.

Jean desperately tries to think of something clever to say when a harsh ringing interrupts his pathetic attempt at communication.

‘Sorry!’ Milady punches buttons on her phone until it stops making any noise at all.

Jean had completely forgotten there was another person there, so surprised was he by Armand. But now he’s re-assessing. He’s familiar with Milady; he sometimes sees her around the school, but more often he sees her out on the town, usually with a different gentleman each time. Was Armand her gentleman? Were they together? Had they been together this whole time?

He’s surprised at how jealous he suddenly is. His grip on his keys is so tight that it’s leaving marks in his palms.

‘Well, thank you for supporting the team, Mr Richelieu. Good evening.’ Without waiting for a response, he makes his way to his car, slams the door shut, and peels away from the parking lot, eager to get out of there, get back home, and punch a pillow until he feels much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive any typos or mistakes; I've just come back from my office Christmas party, and there was an open bar.


	4. At Home

Work has been eating Jean up alive these past couple of weeks, which he chalks up to the fact that it’s almost the summer. The crime rate always spikes along with the temperature, he’s found. With all the paperwork this entails, he’s barely had time to eat, let alone fret about a severely handsome man whose intense gaze burns straight to the core of him. There just isn’t time. Besides, it’s not affecting him in the _least_.

Nevertheless, he’s been avoiding Olivier’s school, but only because he can’t leave work until well after classes are out.

‘Dad?’ Olivier asks one day as they’re having dinner.

Jean realizes he's been staring at his food without eating it for a good five minutes now, and shakes himself out of it. ‘Yeah?’ he asks, before finally cutting into the meat and placing it in his mouth, not tasting anything.

‘You seem … out of it, lately,’ Olivier says. ‘Anything I should know about?’

‘No,’ Jean says almost too quickly. ‘I mean, no, there’s nothing. Just tired, you know. Long days at the precinct. You know how it is.’ _What a time for my son to actually start noticing things_.

‘All right.’ Olivier looks like he’s letting it go.

His son usually keeps to himself and doesn’t often ask him questions, much less about how he’s feeling, so Jean decides to seize the opportunity to speak to his son a little more. ‘How’s school?’

‘It’s fine.’

_Ah, a false dawn, then._

* * *

One day, Jean gets home so tired that he barely kicks off his shoes before he collapses on the sofa. He passes out for about 15 minutes.

‘Dad. Wake up!’

Jean forcibly drags himself into consciousness, and opens his eyes. ‘What is it?’

Olivier thrusts a sheaf of papers into his hands. ‘You need to speak to Mr Richelieu.’

Jean suppresses a flinch at the name. Furrowing his brow, he leafs through the papers Olivier just handed him. It’s one of Olivier’s assignments, riddled with red marks and comments in the margins, with a neat ‘F’ written on the last page. ‘What happened here?’ he asks.

‘Dunno.’ Olivier shrugs noncommittally. ‘Could you schedule a meeting with him tomorrow? He’s got office hours at 5 then. I need you to sign off on this grade before I can get my report card on Friday.’

‘But I thought you were doing well in this class!’ Jean says angrily. ‘The last time I met with Ar— Richelieu, he said you were one of his best students. How could you get a straight F on a paper?’

That noncommittal shrug again. Jean really does hate that.

‘Fine, I’ll meet with him tomorrow. But this better be the last F I see from you.’

Olivier makes a sound that could be interpreted as assent and trudges up to his room.

Jean’s first, shameful reaction is _That bastard is taking it out on my son!_ But deep down, he feels Armand is too much of a professional for that. So he lets out a sigh, and looks over Olivier’s assignment again. It’s … bad. He’d never go so far as to say his son was a stellar scholar, but he was usually a better student than this. _Great_ , he thinks, _now I_ have _to go to his school. Just perfect._

* * *

The next day, Jean pulls into the school parking lot, turns the engine off, and stays in his seat for the next five minutes. It’s not that he’s dreading going inside, although he wouldn’t mind if the earth swallowed him up before he had to talk to Armand.

It doesn’t, and soon enough it’s almost 5, so Jean gets out of his car, Olivier’s paper in hand, and goes in. He’s worried at how easily he makes his way to Armand’s classroom; he’s only been there a couple of times, yet his muscle memory seems to have already set in.

He’s in front of the classroom now. He knocks and lets himself in.

Armand is the picture of calm as he sits behind his desk, asking Jean to take a seat, and it makes Jean want to hit him square in the mouth. With _his_ mouth.

‘I’m sorry about the short notice,’ he says instead. ‘My son didn’t show me his paper until yesterday, and this was the only time I could meet with you.’

‘Please, don’t worry about it.’

‘I must say, I’m surprised he did this badly on such an important assignment. From our last conversation’ — and here they both stop to blush for a second — ‘I gathered he was doing quite well in this class.’

‘He was. He is! Everything I said before stands. Overall, he’s done well enough in all the other assignments that this F won’t actually affect his course grade.’

‘Oh, that’s a relief.’

‘It’s just unfortunate that school policy requires you to discuss this failing mark with me. I’m sure you had better things to do with your time.’

‘No, not at all. I —’ and here, Jean doesn’t know what to say. So he decides to go with the truth. ‘I’m sorry. About our last conversation. And ghosting on you these last few weeks. I just thought you were with her, you know? But I’ve …’

Armand rests his head in his hands, almost like in prayer. Jean can see he’s getting nowhere, so he stands and heads for the door. ‘Dammit. I’m just going to go … goodbye, Mr Richelieu.’

It’s that name that snaps Armand out of his silence. ‘Listen.’ Upon seeing that Jean has turned back to him, he takes a deep breath and continues. ‘Thank you. For not thinking — well. For not thinking I failed him on purpose.’

‘I did at first, actually. But once I looked at the paper, it was unequivocally awful. I don’t blame you. I would have given it an F minus, and he’s _my own son_.’

They share a chuckle as Jean takes his seat again. Armand has missed this easy camaraderie. With a man he barely knows, granted, but a man he would dearly love to know better. ‘I’m not with her, just so you know. She’s just a very good friend.’

‘Oh?’

‘And I would like to pick up where we left off.’

Jean smiles, full of mirth and promise. God, does Armand love it when he does that. ‘Would you like to go out for dinner? I could eat.’

‘Only if I pick the restaurant.’

‘I don’t know. You seem like the kind of guy who would pick the snootiest French restaurant in town.’

Armand sighs the sigh of the world-weary, put-upon man. ‘Then we shall go to my second-favorite restaurant.’

Jean laughs; a full, hearty sound that Armand would like to hear every day for the rest of his life. ‘I’ll drive.’

* * *

Jean wakes up at 7:30, a half hour later than he usually does. Must have been all that wine, he thinks with a smile on his face as he gets out of the shower and pulls on his clothes.

The smile must still be on his face as he goes down to the kitchen to make himself some coffee, because Olivier says, teasingly, ‘You didn’t get home until pretty late last night.’

‘I had dinner with a friend,’ he responds.

‘Everything work out with Mr Richelieu, then?’

‘Turns out that F won’t actually affect your grade, so you scraped through that by the skin of your teeth.’

‘You two have a good dinner?’

Jean didn’t realize spit-takes were a thing that happened in real life until just this second.

Olivier almost looks smug as Jean finishes his coughing fit. ‘I’m going to take that as a yes.’

‘How did you know?’

‘He started acting all mopey around the same time you did. Figured it must have had something to do with the parent-teacher conference. Put two and two together.’

‘You put your grades at risk for this?’ Jean is incredulous.

‘Of course not. I knew it wouldn’t affect my grade. But I had to find a way to get you both in the same room.’

‘There must have been an easier way to do all this.’

‘Probably, yeah. But it worked, didn’t it?’ Olivier’s eyes are twinkling. Figures that his sullen son, who doesn’t seem to care about anything, would suddenly care about his dad’s love life.  _Teenagers are weird_ , Jean thinks.

He downs the rest of his coffee and heads out for work. ‘I should still ground you for that paper, you know. It was unbelievably bad.’

‘You won’t, though,’ Olivier yells as the door shuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's almost been a year since the last chapter, but I felt like these dummies deserved a proper ending.


End file.
